The Thief's Paradigm
by chimericalll
Summary: When you have nothing to lose, you plan on winning. You do what needs to be done, because you have what it takes. But do you really have nothing to lose? This is Foxface's story, from beginning to end.
1. Chapter 1

I awake that morning to the sound of hovercraft. Today's the day. The day that anything could happen. The day that determines if I live or die. I rub the remnants of sleep from my eyes with my bony, crooked fingers and nimbly somersault out of bed. I groggily approach our ice box and pull out a small bag of berries I've been saving for today, as I may as well eat on the Reaping Day, out of all days. I park myself on the bench Father built out of a fallen tree so many years ago, when we were farther from starving. I could turn on the television or flip on the radio, should I want to. Living in District 5, I have grown up with constant electricity.

My little brother, Callidus, appears out of his nook of a room, rubbing his eyes. He's only 6 this year, so he doesn't have to worry about the reaping for a long time.

"Juliya, I'm scared it's going to be you," he crawls up on the bench next to me, taking a couple berries and nervously tossing them between his hands.

"Cal, you shouldn't get worked up about it. If it is me, then it's me. You know how quick I am! Maybe I could even win the whole thing," I croon, tickling his thin little belly. "But it won't be me. I promise." He starts to laugh and nods, popping the berries into his mouth one by one.

"Where's Papa?" he asks.

"Probably out at the square, getting something to eat," I say.

At that moment, he appears. My father is a tall, thin man with light red curls, practically blond when compared with my deep red mane. He always wears a long, raggedy coat, regardless of the weather. His cheekbones have the sunken look of one who rarely eats. And it's true; he gives most of his food to Cal and I. He's a good man. One of the best. Without saying a word, he puts a loaf of bread on the table, followed by a bottle of cold water and a box of raisins. This is a good haul.

"How'd you manage this?" I ask, my eyes still wide. Cal has started tearing chunks off the bread and stuffing them in his mouth. I follow suit.

"Knocked down a cart of apples and took it while they were distracted," Father replies, taking a sip of the water. He hands me the bottle, and I tilt my head back as I drink. It tastes much better than the stuff out of the sink, which runs warm and brown 80% of the time.

"You know you could be whipped for just the raisins?" I say. He shakes his head, smiling.

"You know you could be grounded for just your smart mouth?" He taps Cal on the left shoulder, then sneaks a raisin out of his right hand. "What are you wearing to the Reaping, Juliya? You really should look your best."

I shrug and run my hands through my hair. It's still a little wavy from sleeping on it wet last night, but I don't mind. I like it this way. It makes me look wild.

"Well, your mother had a couple dresses that I'll bet you'd fit into by now," he trails off. He rarely if ever mentions my mother, and I know it's a painful topic for him. I nod before he has to go any farther.

"There's one in particular that I vaguely remember her wearing. The brown one? I might take that one," I test the waters. There's hurt in his eyes, but he smiles sharply and exits to his room, probably to run his hands over the old fabrics of Mother's silky shirts and dresses. She always appreciated the finer things, even if it meant she couldn't eat for a few nights. That's how Father's habit of stealing started. Cal finishes his berries and raisins, washing all of it down with a long drink of the sweet water.

"How many times is your name going into the ball this year?" he asks out of nowhere.

"22 this year, kiddo. We really need those tesserae," I say trying to hide my fear as I rub his sleek brown hair. He has his hair to owe to Mother. His warm chocolate eyes scan my face, and I wonder if the terror at the likelihood of my reaping is showing in my own eyes. He gives me a tight squeeze and a kiss on the cheek before heading back to his room, and I go to mine.

There is a small, cracked mirror on my wall, next to a picture of Mother and Father on their wedding day. The mirror was a wedding present from Father's parents. I scan my face in the mirror and light a candle. Even with the constant promise of electricity, the bills are quite high. I rarely turn on the light in my room, simply for the benefit of Cal. His best nights are those where he can listen to the radio we keep in the kitchen.

I have almond-shaped brown eyes, exactly like every member of my family, including Mother (according to the wedding photo I've practically memorized). In my own eyes, much like my father's, I see a constant crafty glint, which Father calls The Thief's Paradigm. I agree, since that is probably the line of business I'll be following. My nose is small and sloped, dappled with tiny freckles from days spent outside trying to sneak food. I have high cheekbones that carry a constant blush, and thin lips. The overall effect is somewhat like a fox. I like this idea. To me, the fox has always seemed a clever and nimble breed. Father must have known which dress I meant, because it is lying across my bed before I can even think. He probably snuck through the kitchen while Cal and I were talking.

The dress is exactly as I remembered it. It's plain, but that's the beauty of it. It's brown with a few golden threads woven through it. Fabric like this costs hundreds just to buy second-hand. The skirts bunch out mildly, but only just enough to where you can sit down comfortably. I put it on and smile. It's truly lovely. I look just like Mother. Instead of letting Father see me and allowing him to once again digress to tears, I sneak out the window to the Reaping. I'm doing him a favor by not letting him see me. He'll be able to see me after the reaping, and hopefully he'll have calmed down a bit by that point.

I walk into the town square and see the large stage the Capitol has somehow imported via hovercraft. Behind the stage is the typical view of our ugly factories that cough steam and smoke into the air everyday except today, most holy of days in the Capitol; most cheerless in the districts. I imagine that from the stage, you wouldn't be able to see the factories. Of course, that doesn't give me any desire to climb those stairs.

There are large crowds of people huddled together surrounding the stage. This is an emotional day for all of us. I head over to the group of fifteen year olds and they step closer to the Peacekeepers who guard us. They all know my family's reputation, though not a one would admit it. Friends are scarce, to say the least. I look back and see Cal and Father sharing a coat for warmth. I rub my own arms when I realize how cold it truly is.

A short, balding man with green highlights in his hair sits smiling and chatting with our town's mayor. Something about his grin makes me want to throw up my bread and berries. He seems extremely... Greasy. The mayor looks like he shares this sentiment, and is relieved when he hears the clock tower chime three times, which must be his cue to read to us the history of Panem.

He weaves a tale of a fictional-sounding place called North America where the people constantly warred within themselves and were exposed to many different opportunities. I, for some reason, long for a place like that. He then moves on to the list of victors from District 5. A district with a recently booming population, many of our tributes are younger and have not even stood a chance at winning. It is because of this that we have only 4 surviving Victors. Their names are Braxton Applegrass, Bliss Arbuckle, Adicia Puskarich, and Cyprus Zieman. Judging by their position on stage, it appears that this year's mentors will be Cyprus and Bliss. Their expressions are cold and empty, just like every year.

The green-haired man prances cheerily to the front of the stage, where he gushes about how honored he is to be this year's District 5 escort. Though barely intelligible in his thick Capitol accent, I believe he says his name is Xanadu Tum. What a name. Before crossing to the first ball, he winks out at the audience and gives us the standard reaping greeting.

"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" he trills. "Ladies first!"

He turns the ball over several times.

He opens the little door on the side of the ball.

He reaches his hand in.

He pulls out a name.

He opens the paper.

He says "Juliya Solaris!"

I freeze.

I don't realize what's happened for about 30 seconds, and then they're pulling me up on stage and Bishop is shaking my hand and I'm looking out at the audience and Father is crying and Cal is screaming and I'm holding back the tears that will inevitably squeeze out later and they push me to the front of the stage and the wind blows so hard I'm nearly knocked over. My head is pounding at the same pace as my heart. I am going to die. I remain in a haze as they select the male tribute, a 17 year-old named Jeremiah. He appears to have the same reaction as I do, and looks out at his whimpering family with a helpless look as if to say "I'm sorry. I can't do anything about this." A smiling Xanadu forces Jeremiah and I to shake hands for the cameras, and I manage a tiny smile and a wave.

And I was right. You can't see the factories from the stage.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks to everybody who subscribed! This chapter is a lot shorter than the first, but Ch. 3 should be average length. I hope you all enjoy! Please read and review :)**

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Then they're carting us off-stage and into these pathetic little rooms where we're supposed to meet up with our families. There's a couch with some sort of soft fabric on it, where I place myself numbly. I run my hands over it, the way I used to do with Mother's dresses. I think it's silk, but I have next to no experience with luxury. I'm from Five; not One.

The door creaks open and Cal flies into my arms. He's shaking harder than I am. I hold him for a moment, like I did when he had nightmares when he was a toddler. He calms down after a bit.

"Juliya," he croaks into my shoulder, "you promised."

"I know, Cal. I'm sorry," I whisper, gripping him because I love him, and because I don't know when I'll have to let go.

"Why did you lie?" his voice breaks again.

"Cal, I didn't. I wouldn't do that to you." I set him down and he wipes the tears from my face before exploding back into uncontrollable sobs again. I grab him and pull him even tighter.

"Where's Father?" I can feel his warm tears dripping down my back, so I shake him a little and ask him again. "Where's Father?" It is not Cal, but the Peacekeeper in the corner who speaks up.

"They caught your Father stealing bread this morning. He has been taken into custody," he grimaces as if the fact that my family is starving makes him sick to his stomach.

"That's not possible," I shake my head, almost laughing a little. This must be some last-ditch effort of Father's to make a joke. But the Peacekeeper only laughs cruelly. Cal crumples to a ball on the ground, and I dash to the evil man standing before me.

"My family is starving! That bread saved this one's life!" I nudge Cal with my foot. I am getting more and more unhinged as I watch my baby brother cry himself numb.

"He deserves every lash, and you know it," the Peacekeeper raises his hand as if to hit me. At that moment, a large-sounding bell sounds. The man straightens out his back and smiles slowly. "Time to go, Tribute." Cal grabs at my feet and I try to reach back down to him, but the Peacekeeper pushes him off and drags me away. I quiet down, realizing the stakes that are at hand. I either go and die, leaving Cal not a soul on this earth, or I return, a new hero, and give him not only structure, but paradise. I glance back at my little brother's sad eyes and make a promise to myself. I will be his guiding light for his days in the children's home. And for my days in the arena, he will be mine.


	3. Chapter 3

Jeremiah is standing, slumped, wearing the same disturbed expression from the moment he got selected, in the center of the train car. I can barely look at him. I can barely look at anybody. Somebody approaches me from behind and pats me on the shoulder. I correctly assume it's Bliss. I suddenly get this odd feeling that Bliss must know something. Something about Father. There's an odd glint in her eye that I can't quite make out, but I trust it. Xanadu scampers happily through the door and beams at Jeremiah and I.

"It's been a long day, hasn't it, kids?" We look at him. "Tired, eh?" Neither of us flinches. Cyprus comes out of the same small compartment that Bishop entered from, and assumes his position next to Jeremiah.

"We dine at 7. I hope you can wait until then. You'll find a selection of clothes in your sleeping compartments. Change before you come to supper," he breathes. I get a feeling that he knows something's gone down as well, though who knows how much.

I numbly extricate myself to the sleeping compartment where I find the clothes Cyprus promised. I somehow can't bring myself to take off Mother's dress, so I leave it on, figuring they can't do anything too terrible to me, after they've already promised my death. I lie down on the bed and try to breathe as the train lurches forward. It's uncomfortable at first, but eventually gets into a calming rhythm. Still, my lungs reject the air. I lay choking on nothing for a few moments. I attempt to squeeze out some tears, figuring this would be the best time. Tears do not come either. It's probably for the best, as I don't want even scrawny Jeremiah to understand the wounds I have received even before entering the arena. Suddenly, there is a presence beside me on the bed and I flip over to see Bliss sitting quietly, running her bony hands over the bedspread.

"Tell me what you know," I beg.

"I don't," she breathes. "Nobody will tell me." The tears finally begin to pour, and pour they do. My face reddens to the color of my hair as I double over in a kind of pain that even morphling wouldn't satisfy. She crouches down beside me and whispers kind words. When I finally calm down a bit she pulls me up to eye level.

"If it makes you feel any better, my father was punished for the exact same crime just last year, and he was pardoned after the whipping." This adds a level of comfort for a moment, but suddenly I'm gasping for breath again.

"He's a repeat offender! What if they discover that?" This does stop her for a moment.

"I'll be in contact with a couple connections I have in the Capitol. For Cassius, I'm willing to use my... Victor's influence," she says, using my father's first name. I'm not surprised by this, as they grew up together on the strip. Father mentioned a couple times in my childhood how they had lived next door to each other. While a glint of hope crosses my face, a dark shadow crosses hers, and I suddenly wonder what "victor's influence" really means.

We take a moment to just look at each other. She's a plain woman, though she wasn't always that way. I saw her games when I was 9. She was one of the younger ones, and gorgeous. Brown hair that curled slightly, turquoise eyes that could make you think twice about hurting her, eyes that seem oddly trustworthy to me...

The Thief's Paradigm. It's in her eyes. I saw it in Father's and it's the same in hers and mine and Cal's. A fire behind her. I know in this moment that we are alike: we can trust each other, but nobody else can trust us. _Because_ nobody else can trust us. I smile suddenly at this realization and hug her. She's surprised, but softens after a moment.

"Thank you," I whisper. She pats me on the back and then lets go.

"Dinner's soon," she points out. "You'll want to keep up the quiet act. I can tell it's working on Jeremiah." With that, she makes her exit.

I cock my head as I turn this idea over in my head. The quiet act. What act? This is just how I am. And suddenly it dawns on me: my personality type is not a terrible one when it comes to survival. Quiet observation. Hmm. I follow her out the door with a new hope that's started to fill the hole in my heart.

The meal passes slowly. It's delicious, of course. More delicious than anything I've tasted. Some kind of bird filled with a berry jam served with creamy mashed potatoes and a mint salad. But there's a hollowness in me that the food can't fill. An empty ache that could only be fixed by Father and Cal. Or Mother. I try not to think too hard, but it doesn't work. I tell myself I'm selfish and horrible for my disappointment in their safety, but that doesn't help. I want them to miss me. I want us to all hurt together. They get each other, but I get neither. My thoughts are interrupted suddenly by Xanadu trying to make light-hearted conversation.

"So, on a scale of one to ten, one being "Ooh, bummer!" and ten being "Best day of my life!" how excited were you two when you were reaped? Huh?"

I stare at him dumbfounded, and Jeremiah starts to laugh. Bliss joins him. Then Cyprus starts to chuckle. Before long, we're all laughing as Xanadu self-consciously glares at us from across the table.

"Could you possibly be serious?" Cyprus wipes tears from his eyes. He looks at Xanadu with an accusatory face.

"No," Xanadu scoffs. "No, of course not. It was a joke. Naturally." He chortles nervously, which sends us all back into fits of giggles. "Well, fine!" He huffs, getting up from the table. "Be up with the sun tomorrow. We have a lot of work to do with the two of you."

We sit in silence, while Jeremiah wolfs down several more plates of food. His family is starving just as much as mine, probably worse. He has 4 siblings, all younger. A sister in my class at school, and the rest are under twelve. I rarely see the parents around, and I doubt they're even in the picture. I've known several teens from my district to secretly take over their families after the passing of their parents to keep their siblings out of the children's home. I wonder what will happen to his family. Perhaps the girl will take over. More likely they'll be turned over to the orphanage.

After a few minutes of this, Cyprus clicks a button on a small remote which reveals a television screen on the wall where we can watch the reapings of our fellows. A slim blonde girl and a sleek brown-headed boy from District One. A monster and a half from Two. A few forgettable faces in the mix. I don't catch any of the names at first because I'm so nervous to see my own reaping.

I hear my name called and watch my candlelight-colored hair climb to the stage. It's silent. As soon as the screen flashes a metallic number 6 to signify the next reaping, I release a tremendous sigh. I hadn't been breathing. I think I managed to escape any major notoriety from the reaping, and for this I am thankful. For a few reapings, I catch only the names. Bane. Chloe. Pandora. Malachi. That's all they are, right? Just names. Names that won't matter in a few weeks. I watch mousy boy from 10 limp to the stage. I believe I hear his name is Beck. A shudder goes through me. You'd think a leg like that would get you disqualified. A tiny twelve year old from 11 scampers onto the stage, followed closely by a hulking eighteen year old. Lots of variety. I'm barely paying attention by the reaping of District 12, and I start to pick at my fingernails. My nervous habit. It'll all be over soon, Juliya. Deep breaths. I suddenly hear a disturbance from the television screen. I look up just in time to see a blonde twelve year old ushered off the stage to be replaced by a fierce girl about my age with brown braids. I smirk at this. Family love. I would have done the same for Cal in a heartbeat, if it was possible or necessary. A blond boy climbs the steps and glances helplessly at the girl next to him. Their mentor, Haymitch, starts to say something, but Cyprus and Bliss exchange a look and turn if off before we get to see anything.

"You know, Xanadu really is right," Cyprus offers. Bliss nods quickly. Jeremiah shovels a few more bites into his mouth before getting up. I push away my plate, practically untouched, and go to my compartment. I strip off Mother's now wrinkled and tear-stained dress. I jump onto the bed and lie there face down in my underclothes until sleep comes. I awake several times through the night with tears on my face. The dreams are unbearable. Images flick through my brain, each more disturbing than the last. Countless faces from past games being stabbed, shot, burned. Father being tortured. A starving Cal in the children's home. I see my mother's face, clean and fresh. She presses one finger to her lips in a silencing motion. I jolt awake and begin to realize that my attempt at sleeping is futile. I wipe my face off and leave my room.

In the next compartment, there are huge floor to ceiling windows made from sparkling, reflective glass. I look into one and see the same girl from this morning staring back at me. The same miserable, starving girl. Except this time, her face is red and puffy instead of pale and sleek. Her body is hunched in sadness instead of upright in confidence. She doesn't look well.

"Hello," a voice echoes against the windows. I look over and Jeremiah is sitting on a velvet couch looking at me with his hazel eyes. He must've been there the whole time, because there's an element of pity in them. I'm about to answer when I remember I'm supposed to be quiet and secretive. Instead I wave.

"Can't sleep?" I shake my head. "Can't talk?" I have to stifle a laugh at this one. He's got a calming presence. But I can't like him. In a matter of days we'll be each other's worst enemies. Even though I ache for human contact, I simply shrug my shoulders. He chuckles and pats the space next to him on the couch, where I sit gently on the edge.

"The dreams are worse than I thought they'd be, to say the least." I nod at this as if to say "Tell me about it."

He's nice enough. He talks about school, mostly. Teachers, the cute little ones, siblings, parents... Turns out I was right about his home life. His parents aren't dead, but absent. His father left when his youngest sister was born, and his mother disappeared a few months ago without warning. He had been taking care of his family by gathering and begging.

"So what's your strategy?" he asks, hushed. I pause. I consider keeping quiet, but my curiosity gets the best of me.

"I don't really know," I begin. My throat muscles scream in protest. The combination of the disuse and the crying has given me a terrible throatache. The choking probably was not much help, either. "Keeping quiet. Waiting it out, I guess."

"I'll tell you mine," he says. He stretches his thin arms to the ceiling and rests them behind his head. "The second we get in there, I'm getting out."

"What do you mean 'out'?"

"What's the one way to escape the games?" he says, suddenly serious. He stares into my eyes, his hazel suddenly appearing stoney instead of afraid or silly. All at once, I realize what he means.

"You're going to..." He nods. "Why?"

He bursts into laughter and doesn't quiet for about a year. "Look at me."

I hate to admit it, but I see his point. Skin-and-bone arms hang limp at his sides. I can see blue veins protruding from his pale, translucent skin. His legs are long, but thin. It doesn't look like he's ever exercised in his life, though I don't blame him. Finding food is the real challenge for the poor in District 5. I catch myself nodding at his statement, though I have no idea when I started.

"How are you gonna do it?" I'm whispering now.

"Well, I'd rather not be subject to one of those Career brutes. Maybe I'll drown myself. Or poison," he speaks about this with such ease and confidence that I wonder if he'd been planning his own death even before he was reaped.

He looks over at me and smirks before rising to his feet. "Wouldn't want to disappoint Xanadu. Up with the sun tomorrow, right?" He offers me a hand to help me up from the couch, and then we head in our separate directions.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks for the follows and reviews! I'm so glad you guys are enjoying my story :) I won't be able to post for a while after this because I'm going on vacation with my family. I've got stuff to post ASAP when I get back, though, so never fear! Please review and follow, but more importantly, please enjoy!**

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My stylist's name is Freema Quince. What a name. I haven't technically met her yet, but I already hate her. Currently, I am hiding from her in the linen closet. I don't know how long it will take her to find me, but I'm hoping it'll be a while. It probably won't be. I don't even really know where I am, exactly. She's already gotten her prep team to completely rid my body of any and all imperfections, but I decided it was time to run when they wanted to dye my hair. It might sound bizarre, but my hair is one of my only ties to home, since I don't have a district token. It reminds me of Father. And Cal. And any happy memory I could possibly produce from my limited memory.

* * *

When we got "up with the sun" this morning, we were pulling into the station. Xanadu instructed us to dress in something simple, so I threw on a pair of black pants and a blue shirt from my wardrobe. We sat at breakfast in silence while I picked at a piece of toast and Jeremiah turned into a vacuum. Bliss and Cyprus politely sipped at tea and made quiet small talk with each other while we waited for Xanadu to come out and give us further instructions.

It went on like this for about 20 minutes before any of us even began to question where he could possibly be, but when he finally appeared, it was obvious why he had taken so long this morning

He was wearing a silver suit that sparkled when the light hit it. His face was completely painted on, giving him a sort of artificial, plastic sheen that would have frightened Cal if he had seen it. His green highlights were twisted into corkscrews that stood on end. I shoved my entire piece of toast in my mouth to keep from laughing. One quick glance at Jeremiah showed me that I wasn't alone. Tears were pricking the corners of his hazel eyes as he faked a cough attack. Xanadu produced a clipboard out of his overlarge jacket pocket and skimmed his sausage finger down it until he arrived on the first item of today's agenda. Makeovers. Great.

We were led into these separate white rooms and instructed to undress. I did so and almost instantaneously, three colorful bodies entered the room. You could hardly call them people.

Each had a different color scheme. There was a tall lanky one whose pink hair matched her sequined dress and pin-curled hair. She introduced herself as Flamingo. How fitting. The skin of the second was dyed the same shade of ice blue from head to toe. She stuck out her hand for me to shake, and I noticed a snowflake painted onto each fingernail. It seemed unnecessary if you ask me, but I suppose I could see how that could be considered attractive. She's called Veronica. The third was a man, with a torso almost as slim as my own. He was decked out in green, and his garments were made of a patchwork fabric that looked a little bit like the leaves of a tree. He painted on his eyebrows, just like Xanadu. I can't understand the appeal of this. It's a little disturbing. He didn't introduce himself, but I heard Veronica call him Flax. He's Flamingo's twin brother, though you could barely tell they were related from the way they had both edited their appearances.

They circled me a few times, whispering to each other with concerned looks on their faces. And then they set to work. Veronica tackled my hands, shaping each fingernail into a perfect oval and making the skin silky smooth. Flax was on hair duty, and he smoothed out all the kinks, making it soft as a cloud. Flamingo supervised over all things skin. She waxed me down until the only hair that remained on my body was on my head, which honestly seemed a little inconvenient for the games, but I needed it for the sponsors. When I finally got a look in the mirror, I was... Disappointed. They put so much effort into making me look beautiful that you'd think it would pay off. I looked bald and pathetic and washed out. It upset me. I didn't even slightly resemble the fox girl in the dusty mirror at home.

The preps were almost as underwhelmed as I was. They whispered to each other a bit more, eyeing me distastefully. Keep in mind, I was still completely naked, which only added to the embarrassment. My face briefly matched the color of my flame-red hair. Flamingo went out of the room briefly to consult with Freema, while Flax and Veronica were left behind to stare at me worriedly.

I finally decided it was time to break the odd barrier between us with a few words.

"When do I meet my stylist?"

Veronica just stared at me in shock for a moment, as if I had just asked if I could blow my nose in her mouth. Flax had a similar reaction initially, but then he spoke up.

"Whenever you've reached beauty base zero. We should've been done by this point, but that hair of yours is really tricky. Great, though. Love the color," he smirked.

"Oh, yes," Veronica added condescendingly. "I imagine that if you win, it'll become a huge fad in the capitol. Everybody will want the fox hair."

I couldn't tell if this was a compliment, but it sounded like it was intended to be, so I said, "Thank you."

At that moment, Flamingo returned with a bright orange bottle in her hand.

"What did Freema say?" Flax asked, good-naturedly. He's certainly the most levelheaded of the prep team.

"Said that her hair could be redder. Gave me this," she held the bottle up. "It'll brighten it two shades."

I immediately tightened up. My face turned a deep shade of scarlet. My hair was my only link to home. Thinking back on it now, I have no idea what got into me, but in the moment, I was not going to let that happen.

"No," I whispered through clenched teeth.

"What?" Veronica asked incredulously. I couldn't tell if it was only the dye, but she seemed to actually be going blue in the face.

"You don't get to take me from my family, rip all my hair out, and then get rid of my last connection to home. No. I refuse. I won't do it," I crossed my arms stubbornly.

"It's what Freema wants. She's going to help you get sponsors," Flax tried to comfort me with a pat on the shoulder, but I pulled away.

"Then maybe I don't want sponsors," I started to turn away, shaking my head.

"Come back here. She's going to be angry," Flax hissed, reaching for me.

But I had already thrown on a robe and bolted out the door.

* * *

So that's how I ended up here, in a dark closet full of dirty clothes. I can't recognize the fabrics exactly, but I know that Mother had a few dresses of whatever they are. All of it feels familiar and cool on my skin. The feeling and the smell of it wraps me up in a warm cloud of nostalgia, neither happy nor sad.

I remember once, before Mother died, when I was about Cal's age, she used to read to me. I don't know where she got the books. They were old, impossibly old, and the pages were yellowed and brittle. Every Sunday, I sat in the silky fabric of her lap and she whispered stories about boys who flew and princes who turned into animals. Father would stick a log in the fireplace and hopefully we'd have something to eat that night. That was back when he had a real job in the power plant, so we bought food from the market. Warm loaves of bread and fresh eggs. Sometimes, when I did well in school, we'd get cookies from the bakery or flowers from the florist. It was a nice existence. But it ended. I frown when I think about that part, so I freeze time in the moments in front of the fire and I stay there.

I live in my reminiscent bubble for a couple moments. I don't know how long I was there, to be honest. Feels like hours, probably only lasts a few minutes. That's when the door flies open and a woman whose purple lips match her tight one-piece body suit and her jagged haircut. This must be Freema Quince. I want to spit.

"We won't dye your hair if you sit and stay like a good girl," she wearies, exhausted and frustrated. This, I decide, is a good enough compromise. Wordlessly, I stand up, releasing the silks and satins from my hands. Before I can start down the hall, though, she stops me with a finger on my chest. "One catch. I expect a formal apology to those preps. Compliment them. Make them feel good. They're not used to the drama. From now on, sunshine and smiles. Get it?" I force a nod, even though I don't want to agree. Something about this woman seems dangerous. It makes me want to rebel. But I know what's good for me. I turn the corners of my mouth up in a mock smile. I don't show my teeth. She leads me down the hall and back into my prep room.

"There she is!" Flax pipes up, a little too enthusiastically. That's the way the clueless teachers talk to children, like smiling will make people like you. But I do like him. More than the other two, at least. I aim my apology at him while Flamingo and Veronica roll their eyes emphatically and immaturely. Seriously, they'd give Cal a run for his money when it comes to whining. And Cal is really good at whining.

"I apologize for running out like that. I'm just so overwhelmed by how beautiful everything here is! It's, ahh, it's so much to take in after living in the districts!" I look over at Freema who winks at me. Sickening. However, the preps seem reconciled. Veronica and Flamingo grab hands and jump up and down together like little children. I'm hit with an odd pang of affection for them. They're only trying to help. I can trust that they won't do any harm. Freema, however... She's another story.


End file.
